The Black Widow
by Kendra A
Summary: [Buffy: the Vampire Slayer X-Over] A casual night of live roleplaying takes a turn for the wacky. Willow/Angel, Willow/Spike, Willow/Angel/Spike; Cordelia/Gunn. WIP.
1. Forget About This World For A While

Title: The Black Widow

Author: Kendra A.

Summary: The story behind the club _The Black Widow_ that I insist in using in all of my W/A fics.

Rating: PG-13

Author's Notes: Takes place Fifth Season BtVS and Second Season A:tS, but Willow and Tara are just good friends. Also, I have seen some stories by a completely different author also called _The Black Widow_. Since my stories were not posted then, and since I only found them after I began writing this, it is complete coincidence that our stories are both about a club called The Black Widow (the other author writes C/A, while this story will sometime become W/A/S).

* * * 

Cordelia bounced into the office, skipped over to the coffee machine, joyously poured a cup of the sludge that she called coffee, and danced to her desk.

Then she quite seriously sat down and logged onto the demon database to begin the day's work.

Angel, Wesley and Gunn were each standing completely still, staring at her, trying to process the highly undignified entrance she'd just made.

Finally she looked up. "What?"

Angel just shook his head and sipped some sludge. He winced at the taste but didn't put the cup down.

Wesley stuttered something unintelligible and emptied a sixth pack of sugar into his sludge, and then took a sip without wincing quite as violently as Angel did.

Gunn doubtfully glanced at the cup of sludge he held in his hand and then walked over to Cordelia's desk.

"Is there any reason you're all staring at me like I'm possessed?" Cordelia asked tartly, raising a perfectly pencilled eyebrow.

"Are you?" Gunn asked as casually as was humanly possible.

"What?"

"Possessed?"

Cordelia's mouth dropped into an impeccable O. "No! Of course not!" She made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat and turned back to her computer.

"Because your entrance was a little...unusual," Gunn continued.

Cordelia narrowed her eyes at him for a moment and then shrugged. "I felt happy. Is there a problem with that?"

"No!" Gunn said, holding up his hands to convey no offense meant'. Cordelia hmphed' at him, but took a sip of her sludge. They were both silent for a moment as Cordelia made a face, and then Gunn said, "Any particular reason you were so happy?"

Cordelia's face broke into a huge grin. "Willow's coming to visit!"

Angel turned towards them from where he was re-organizing the file cabinets. "Willow's coming to visit?"

"What's that?" asked Wesley, looking up from where he was disorganizing the papers Angel has taken out of the file cabinets.

"Willow's coming to visit," Cordelia said. "She'll stay at my house for a week, and we're gonna go shopping and clubbing and _maybe--_" Cordelia lowered her voice for dramatic effect--"go to the Black Widow!"

The lowering of her voice made no difference to the content of her dialogue as none of the men had nay idea what she was talking about. She stared at them disbelievingly for a moment. "Not even _Gunn _knows what the Black Widow is?"

He shrugged. "Nope."

Cordelia growled with frustration. "The Black Widow! It's only _the_ coolest place to be! It's a club that only the most _elite_ people are let into, and it's for roleplaying, but it's _live!_ They can create alternate realities where you can _really_ be the characters you make up!" She reacquired the grin again. "And Willow is so well known the Occult world that she can get in--and bring _me!_"

A long moment of silence followed this statement.

"Oh," Angel said finally. "Cool."

Cordelia looked ready to burst. "_Cool_? That's all you can say? _Cool_? This is beyond spectacular. You know what I think?" She pursed her lips and glared at all of them. Then she seemed to make a decision, and took out her cell phone. "One second."

She stepped into the courtyard of the hotel, out of their earshot, and dialed a number.

"Roleplaying?" Wesley asked. "What's that?"

"It's kinda like Dungeons and Dragons, the game David Nabbit always plays," Angel said. "You pick a character and pretend to be them, and you can interact with other characters and everything. There are levels and limits and rules, and there's always a Gamemaster, someone who keeps the game within the boundaries of reason and plays backup characters."

"You seem to know roleplaying quite well, Angel," Wesley commented. "Do you—Dungeons and Dragons?"

"Dungeons and Dragons? Heck no," Angel scoffed. Then he grinned. "No, Vampire: the Masquerade is the game for me."

Cordelia stomped back in. "Maybe you losers would appreciate it if you came with me," she said, irritated. "Saturday night, meet at the Black Widow at 5 o'clock."

"Early," Gunn commented.

"Deal," Cordelia replied. "The game has to be set up, after all."

* * * 

Willow shifted nervously from foot to foot. Tara glanced at her and grinned. "Calm down, wiggleworm," she said.

"I _can't_," Willow argued. "I mean, you'll understand when you meet them, but Angel is so—unbelievably and untouchably gorgeous, and Cordelia's overwhelmingly just...Cordelia, and she tells me Gunn is pretty hot too, so..." she let the sentence hang.

"Well, once the Game starts, that won't matter," Tara pointed out sympathetically.

"Yeah," Willow said. She leaned over the counter of the bar and gestured to the bartender. "Pepsi, please," she said, and looked to Tara.

"Nothing for me," the blonde assured her friend, and Willow nodded to the bartender and tried to relax.

They both sat quietly in the tumult of the club for a while as Willow stiffly sipped her Pepsi and then ordered another. Tara peered across the sea of people before the door and noticed the three people who entered together, looking around uneasily at the crowded club. Tara poked Willow. "Is that them?"

Willow sat up a little straighter and looked in the direction Tara was pointing. "Yeah. That's them. Let's go." Tucking a strand of hair behind her ears and wishing she'd brought clips, she took Tara by the hand and led her through the club to Angel, Cordelia, and the man she assumed must be Gunn.

* * * 

Angel shifted his weight from side to side, distinctly uncomfortable in the crowd. Cordelia and Gunn ignored him, choosing instead to look through the throbbing masses for Willow and her friend.

"Red hair, right?" Gunn asked.

"And green eyes," Cordelia said. "About 5'8", loves fuzzy sweaters."

"Not anymore, she doesn't," Gunn said, nodding towards the two girls who were crossing the floor towards them. Cordelia looked towards them and her eyes widened, and then she smiled. 

"Willow!" She waved, and the redhead waved back. Angel turned to see her and his eyes widened too. 

"Willow, behind you!" 

She frowned and turned, and then laughed at Spike, who seemed to be preparing to leap at her. She smacked him playfully on the shoulder, and she and her friend stopped to talk to him for a moment.

Cordelia took a step back to ask Angel, "Is she making nice with _Spike_?"

* * * 

After Angel and Spike had been respectively restrained, Willow introduced to Gunn and Tara to everyone, they walked together to the room in the back of the club where they would sign up for the Game.

A tall, slender woman with white-blond hair and black eyes looked up from her desk and smiled slightly. "Hello." She rose in one fluid movement and walked over to them, a long-fingered hand extended in greeting. "I'm Arachne, and you are Angelus, Charles, Cordelia, Tara, William and Willow." She paused, as if listening to a voice none of them could hear. "But where is the seventh one? You always need seven to Play a Game."

Spike and Angel, who had both had to be gently restrained (again) at the flippant use of the names they despised, stiffened. "Since when?" Spike demanded. "I play VTM all the bloody time and there was never a friggin' limit..."

"How do you know we don't have an invisible girl with us?" Angel said crossly.

Arachne looked at him as if he were ridiculous. "Nobody remains invisible in my Web, Vampire," she replied. 

Angel felt another surge of inexplicable anger flood him, and only Willow's light hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality.

Arachne observed this silent communication with a shrewd eye, and then commented, "If you'd like to Play any time tonight, I suggest you fill out the Form."

Tara smiled. "Yes, of course." She held out her hand, and Arachne placed a single sheet of white printer paper in it. Tara looked confused. "Aren't the Forms usually--"

"—Much longer?" Arachne finished for her. "Yes. But I have an idea of what _this_ Game will be like, so there are only a few questions to answer. But," she added, "that does not mean you must be any less careful deciding what you want."

* * * 

"Right," Arachne said. "The rules are: don't do stuff you know is impossible. Act only within the limits of your power. Unless you're supernatural and it's in your power to jump off buildings and land on your feet without a scratch, you don't jump off of buildings and land on your feet without a scratch. Don't address players by their names from this world; don't conspire with them to win' the Game, especially as you don't win."

"So what, exactly, is the point of all this?" Spike asked, leaning over the table as he lit a cigarette.

"And no smoking, either," Arachne said, taking the Marlboro from his lips and pressing her fingers to the glowing tip to snuff it. She didn't flinch as it burned her fingers. "You've all filled out your forms, and I've read them. I will tell you a little bit about your characters. You are all connected in some way."

She stood and pulled down a map from its rolled-up place on the wall. "This is Imani," she said, indicating the map. "It's a world. As you can see, there are three main continents; the one large one is the one that concerns you." A ruler appeared in her hand as she gestured at the map. "This half of the continent," she said, pointing at the upper right corner of the continent, "Is a country called Ayr, but known generally as Ayrkris, because kris' means country'. _This_ half—" she pointed to the lower left corner of the continent "—is called Dorkris. These countries are divided by the Phyrr River, and they are rivals. There are terms for land that I think you should know. Kris is country, as I said. Garth is a large region of the country—a state, I suppose, or in a larger country a time zone. Each garth is named, but in general... for instance, if one were referring to garths within Ayrkris, you would refer to them as Ayrgarths. Feths are regions within garths, more like counties or even zip codes, if you will. Feths are tiny holdings, and they are ruled by earls, barons or dukes. Garths are ruled by counts, and kri are ruled by Kings and Queens. A King is a Krisha, a Queen is a Krish.

"Charles, you are the Krisha of Ayrkris. Your name is Jordan, as you requested. You are married to the former Princess of Dorkris, Cordelia. Cordelia, your name will be Brenna, as you requested. The union was made to prevent war between the two countries. So far, it is barely working. 

"William, you are Brenna's brother, heir to the throne of Dorkris. Your name is Karl, as I did not deem Strangler', Ripper', Slasher' or Killer' as appropriate names. You are known well by all of the esteemed ladies. Don't cause trouble.

"Angelus, you are the half-brother of Brenna and Karl, baron of a small Dorfeth. Your name is Aaron, as you requested. You share a father with Brenna and Karl; however, you are illegitimate," (here Spike snickered) "and he has given you the feth to guarantee your silence. Although your holding is small, you have loyal serfs.

"Willow, your name is Lisha, as you requested. You are the countess of a small Ayrfeth. Your father is dead, and you inherited his holdings partly due to the kindnesses of your cousin-by-marriage, Jordan. You maintain direct contact with the capital because of Jordan and because of Brenna, as you and Brenna are close friends. The assets you requested have been granted, but I think they are unnecessary.

"Tara, you are a practicing Magician at the capital of Dorkris. You see Karl on a daily basis, but he grates on your nerves. You are Lisha's older sister and maintain direct contact with her. Your name is Gili, as requested.

"Each of you requested certain twists in the plot of the story; most of these have been granted, if not quite as you expected. Keep in mind the rules I mentioned, and good Luck."

Arachne gently put her ruler in a niche in the wall next to the map that had previously not existed and rolled up the map. It had reached to the floor; on the wall behind where it had hung was a door.

"The Game does not take more than an hour, although in Imani it may be years. If you die, you may watch the rest of the Game on screens. Step through one by one, please. I will be there as mediator and Master of the Game, playing all other characters."

They all stood, Willow nervously tucking a nonexistent strand of hair behind her ear. Cordelia worried her cuticles and Spike looked for a pack of cigarettes, which were nowhere to be found.

"It may be easiest for you to forget about this world for a while," Arachne said with a hint of caring in her voice. "It will make it so much easier to let go..."

TBC...


	2. Let The Game Begin

****

The Black Widow

__ ****

FORM

YOU

name: Spike

age: 120 (years) 

height: 5'10"

romantic attachments: -

YOUR CHARACTER

name: Strangler Ripper Slasher Killer 

age: 24 (years)

height: 5'10"

preferred physical enhancements: I want to keep my bloody hair color

romantic attachments: -

is there any role you would like to fill in the Game?: If I have to die, I want to die a better death than the Poof will

****

END FORM

Chapter Two: 

__

"It will be so much easier to let go..."

The Countess Lisha Finlay Cari di feRosen di Ayr calmly slid the petal-thin letter into the silk envelope and pressed her seal, a moon rising above a tumultuous sea, onto the lip of the envelope, closing it. She looked up from her desk and smiled at the man shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot in her doorway. "One moment, Nicol," she said. "Let me check the seal."

He looked surprised to be acknowledged but nodded and stopped his shifting for the moment. The Countess bit the tip of her tongue in concentration and tried to slide a gold-tipped fingernail under the wax of the seal. Convinced that it would stay closed until it reached her friends' hands, she stood as she picked up the envelope of a different color and gave them to the nervous Nicol, who had begun to shift again.

"Please take the red one to her Splendor Brenna Aisha Beth di garAyrport di Ayr, and the green one to Magician-at-Court Gili Finlay Cari di garDorport di Dor, okay?"

He slipped them into his large bag. "Red to the Queen, Green to the Dorian Magician. Got it."

She smiled encouragingly. "As fast as you can, okay? They'll be worried."

He returned the smile this time. "Want me to give them verbal messages?"

"No, thank you. They'll open the letters right away anyway. And here!" She handed him three silver coins from her pocket. He glanced at them and then did a double take. "Madam, I couldn't possibly—" 

"Please. I'm sorry about the poor harvest this year, tell everyone that. Okay?" He nodded and slipped the money into the pouch around his waist. He turned to wave goodbye several times.

She waved back at him with an amused smile, and then turned to sit back down.

Willow was desperately trying to sort out all of the information in her head.

Once she'd stepped through that door, she'd been thrown straight here, finishing writing a letter to—Brenna? Who was Brenna?

Cordelia. Of course. _You maintain direct contact with the capital because of Jordan and because of Brenna, as you and Brenna are close friends. _And Gili—Tara was Gili.

What kind of a name was Gili anyway?

Willow shook that thought away and tried to think of a spell to calm her pounding headache, but facts would not stop bombarding her brain.

Your father died two years ago. You're fifteen. You're not married.

You miss Brenna (Brenna? Oh, Cordelia) and Gili (what kind of name is that, anyway?) so much it hurts.

You think Aaron (who?) is handsome but a bore.

You have a crush on Karl (WHAT?!?!?!).

You like to fistfight.

The last crop has been sparse and your serfs go unpaid, but they've been willing to let it alone so far.

You've been so caught up in your books lately that you haven't written to Gili or Brenna till just then. They'll be hurt but understanding.

You've been considering asking Jordan for a grant of money.

You're five feet, ten inches tall (I AM? Cool). 

You don't know spells.

Willow sighed and shook her head. Okay, so maybe she couldn't think of a spell to calm her pounding headache.

She'd go for a walk; it was autumn, and autumns in this part of Ayrkris were quite crisp and cool.

__

You're five feet, ten inches tall. Right. She'd tour the place, even if she technically knew it all, and maybe take a look in the mirror, and _then_ she'd go for her walk.

* * * 

The first thing Cordelia saw when she opened her eyes were the equally opened eyes of Gunn.

The first thing she realized was that she was in bed.

The second thing she realized was that she was in bed with Gunn.

The third thing was that they were both completely nude, and barely covered by a thin white silk sheet.

"Eep!" She leaned over the side of the bed, away from Gunn, reaching for the blanket that had fallen to the floor (presumably during the activities their characters had taken part in the night before). She was stopped by the feeling of Gunn's strong hands holding her back. Barely managing to keep the sheet covering her chest, she turned to him, and was extremely surprised when he kissed her soundly on the lips.

"Good morning, Brenna," he said once they'd both had to pull away for lack of breath. He wiggled his eyebrows at her and then got up.

Oh boy.

* * * 

Tara was roused from intense concentration by persistent knocking on the door.

With a sigh, she put down her pen and went to answer it.

Spike barged in. "What the _hell_ is going on?"

Tara quirked an amused eyebrow. "Beg pardon, your Majesty?"

"Don't you _dare_ Your Majesty' me!" He violently yanked the pale gold circlet off his head and threw it at the wall. "What the hell am I wearing?"

She tried her best to look confused, although her mirth at Spike's bewilderment at his new situation was making roleplaying difficult. "Your tunic, pants and robe, Majesty."

He glared at her. "Look, witch, you're really getting on my nerves. I asked to be someone powerful, but I didn't ask to be dressed like some nancyboy!"

She lifted the back of her hand to his forehead. "Are you quite all right, Majesty?"

He batted her hand away irritably. "Obviously you're not going to be of any help at _all_." He sighed, and then walked over to her mirror and brushed a hand over his head. "Well, at least my hair's still—" He stopped. "I have a reflection!" He turned back to her, now positively giddy. "I've got a reflection! Whoo-hoo!"

Then he seemed to realize how undignified he was acting and calmed himself again, clearing his throat in a highly imperial fashion. "I don't suppose you'd know the whereabouts of my personal assistant?"

"Majesty, I _am_ your personal assistant." She cocked her head at him. "Are you _sure_ you're all right?"

"Yeah—yes. I'm quite fine, thank you. Do I have any engagements this afternoon, or is the remainder of the day mine to squander irresponsibly?"

She ignored his joking and picked up the large bound book she used to list his responsibilities. "Not today, no. But tomorrow, you've got to be on your yacht by noon. You promised Brenna and Jordan you'd visit."

He furrowed his brow. "Brenna? Jordan?"

Tara rolled her eyes. "Look, Spike, I'll only do this once, and I'm probably only allowed it because it's early in the Game. You're the Prince, got that? So act Prince-y. You've probably got instinctual reminders on how to act that Arachne's given you—everybody's got a pretty good idea of their characters and their backgrounds and stuff. If you don't know somebody, it's because your character doesn't. You have Prince Karl's memories. Brenna is Cordelia. She'd your sister, and she's married to Jordan, the Prince of your rival country, Ayrkris."

"Oh." He rubbed his temples in a form oddly reminiscent of Angel, and then opened an eye to look at her. "Go on. Who are the rest of them?"

"Were you listening at _all_ when Arachne was talking?"

"No, not really."

"Willow is my sister. Her name is Lisha. She's Gunn's—Jordan's—cousin, and Cordy's best friend. I'll probably visit her when we go."

"'We'?" 

"I have to make sure you know what to do. I'm kinda like your Filofax."

"My what?"

"Never mind."

"Who's Angel?" Tara gave him a look that clearly said _You should know this_'. "What?"

"Angel's identity was the only one you noticed. You thought it was funny."

"Oh. Oh, yeah! He's the bastard son, right? Given shut-yer-mouth money?"

"Land."

"Whatever. I think I've got it now." He turned to leave.

"Spi—Majesty?"

"What?"

"You forgot your crown."

* * * 

Willow stood, awed, in the door of her own room. High-ceilinged and walled with stone, it shone with a majestic something-or-other she'd never quite been able to define. It was extremely dignified in a way that didn't make her uncomfortable. 

There was a wide bed made of honey-colored wood that was very low—perhaps only a foot off the floor. There was a thin mattress on it, and it was still unmade as her blankets were tumbled about it on the floor.

It faced the room's only window, which was floor-to-ceiling and framed by thick dark red drapes. Sunlight was flooding the room and bouncing off the walls, which, upon closer examination, proved to have specks of mica in them, which reflected the sunlight in tiny shots of color.

There was a door next to her bed, and Willow crossed the room and opened it. There was a large porcelain basin which she assumed must be a bath. Next to it was a wooden rack which boasted several snowy-white, fluffy towels. Behind the rack was another floor-to-ceiling window covered by a thin silk curtain which let light, but not prying eyes, into the room.

The wall behind the tub was completely covered from the floor to halfway up the wall with mirrors, and it was this wall that Willow cautiously approached.

Her image made her gasp. As her memories' had informed her, she was, indeed, nearly six feet tall. Her eyes were the same—still a dark green—and her hair still red. But the length! It was tied into a tight braid, and it hung down her back, nearly to her knees. From its shape as it curved over her head, she deciphered that it was wavy, and very thick.

She wore loose pants that were tied with a discreet drawstring of gold ribbon. They were mostly blue and green, but in the light from the window that bounced off of the mirrors, she saw that there were tiny threads of gold woven in. The shirt she wore was silver and blue, and it bared her now muscled stomach. The sleeves just covered her elbows, but were so wide that they slid off of her shoulders, and when she turned her back to the mirror to view the rest of her ensemble, she saw that her shirt was backless except for two thick straps across the bottom of her back and right below her shoulders.

She was shocked; she'd never felt this beautiful. But the mode of dress was like nothing she'd ever seen before, except perhaps in Disney's _Aladdin_. 

There was another hanger on the back of the washroom door. On it were swaths of iridescent material. She held a length before her and frowned as she realized, once she looked into the mirror again, that it was completely see-through.

With a sigh, she abandoned it on the towel rack, planning to skip the tour of her current dwellings and just take that walk, as her head was throbbing by now.

When she opened her bedroom door, she came face-to-face with a startled maid, who gave a little gasp and then quickly collected herself. "Beg pardon, Madam," the maid exclaimed.

"It's quite all right," Willow assured her. She gently stepped around the maid and began to stride down the hall. 

"Madam!" the maid called after her, sounding for all the world as if she were scandalized. For the life of her, Willow couldn't imagine _why_; the maid wore a wraparound skirt with dark red and gold patterns and a midriff-baring halter top. 

"Yes?" Willow asked, turning.

"You couldn't possibly go out like that! Come back and I'll put on your _velama_ and _torquei. _I know you dislike them, Madam," the maid continued, effectively cutting off Willow's arguments, "But there is no way you can ever attend Jordan's court without them, so you might as well get used to them."

Willow sighed and allowed herself to be led back into the bedroom.

To her surprise, she was led back into the bathroom. The maid (who, her randomly spouting memory' informed her, was named Aira) gently lifted the length of see-through stuff from the towel-rack where Willow had so negligently dropped it and threw it over Willow's head. 

Willow was too surprised to do anything besides blink. Before she could regain her senses of dignity and righteousness, along with the lightning-quick reflexes of which she was usually so proud, Aira pulled the thing farther back on her head and secured it with a slender silver circlet that rested in Willow's hair. Aira spent a moment trying to secure it before she clucked her tongue in amusement and released Willow's long hair from its braid, letting it fall in a riot of curls down her back and across her shoulders. Then Aira was able to pin the circlet to Willow's hair.

"There," she said proudly. She turned Willow to the mirror, where she was able to see that the frighteningly see-through material was actually a veil to cover her face and hair. It was held on by the circlet, which was really much more of a piece of well-curved, thick wire.

"Thank you, Aira," Willow said. "May I go now?"

Aira looked scandalized again.

* * * 

Cordelia, perfectly clad in veil, gold circlet, various rings, belly chains, bracelets, chokers, a pair of drawstring pants sewn from gold thread, and a red shoulderless shirt similar to the one Willow had so recently donned, floated into the Imperial Breakfast Room.

Gunn was already there, sitting at the small table. He was gazing out at the small pond beyond the glass walls of the Breakfast Room, and he had a cup of choclatl in hand. He didn't notice her appearance, which was good, because she really needed time to assess him.

He was wearing dark red pants of the same material as Cordelia's and a dark red tunic, which came down to his knees. The tunic was open all the way down and had no buttons, revealing a muscular chest and thick gold chain which hung from his neck to about mid-chest. Cordelia's memory bank told her that this was normal attire for men in this part of Imani.

She sent a silent prayer of thanks to whatever higher powers might exist that she would get to see Gunn half-naked for what was likely to be an extended amount of time, and then she cleared her throat to alert him to her presence. "Jordan?"

He turned, and she couldn't help but blush as his piercing gaze traveled her whole body, starting at her bare (except for two toe rings) feet and slowly sliding all the way up to the circlet resting on her long straight hair. "Brenna," he said at last, his formerly blank expression conveying appreciation and possibly... lust? "Good morning."

"You said that already," she reminded him, blushing again as she remembered their pleasant wakeup. "And it's nearly one o'clock."

He snorted in a distinctly un-kingly manner. "Whatever. Come have some hot chocolate."

"Choclatl," she said as she crossed the room.

He furrowed his brow. "What?"

"It's not hot chocolate. It's choclatl."

"See previous answer. Whatever."

Cordelia smiled and settled herself gently into her chair, reaching with a long-fingered (and overly adorned) hand for the second cup of choclatl.

"I hear your brother is coming to visit us soon," Gunn commented idly.

Cordelia raised an eyebrow. "Really? Which one?"

"The troublemaker," Gunn said. "The blond."

"Karl," Cordelia assessed, usually lyrical voice dripping with scorn. "Must he?"

Gunn put down his cup and turned to face her completely. "You don't want him to?"

"I'd much rather Ang—Aaron came. He's far better behaved."

"But he'd illegitimate."

"Illegitimate, schmilligitimate! I haven't seen him for nearly three years now, and I endure Karl's intrusions every month!"

Gunn sighed. "He's bringing the witch—what's her name—"

"Gili."

"Yeah. And if she comes, Lisha will probably visit, too."

Cordelia brightened. "That's worth something. And maybe Karl will go off canoodling again and leave us alone. When's he coming?"

"My Minister told me he was leaving his Dorgarth tomorrow."

* * * 

"What do you _mean_, delayed?" Tara demanded. The trembling shipsmaster paled and shrugged. 

"The ship leaks, Madam," he explained.

"So _patch_ it, damn it!" she retorted. "That doesn't explain the _month_-long delay!"

"Madam, there's nothing I can do about it," the shipsmaster said.

Tara sighed and tried to control her anger with a small tinge of amusement. Apparently her character had a less controlled temper than she, Tara, actually had. 

She contemplated letting her hair spark just to scare the shipsmaster, but decided against it and signaled for him to go.

Spike stuck his head in the door. "What the _hell_ was that?"

"You ship's been delayed, Majesty," Tara replied. 

"Oh, hell," he said. Then he reconsidered. "But then we don't have to go." His face brightened. "We don't have to go!"

* * * 

****

Inside the Black Widow

Arachne frowned at the presence she felt entering the club. It belonged with those who had just begun their Game; why had it not gone with them? She hated it when people were late.

She stood and made her way to the door, where the girl stood. Arachne immediately recognized her and called her name. "Faith!"

The girl spun around in surprise and narrowed her eyes at the thin blonde woman who suddenly stood before her. "How do you know my name?"

__

Oops. Arachne rarely made mistakes, but this had definitely been one. How do you explain to someone that you know them from an Alternate Universe?

"You're here to play the Game," Arachne said in her most cryptic tone.

Faith rolled her eyes. "And you're crazy. Go away."

"Willow's playing," Arachne hazarded, hoping to get a reaction. She did get one, but not the one she wanted. 

"I'm out of here." Faith turned to leave, but Arachne caught her arm. 

"How did you get out of jail, Faith?"

"Lucky trial," Faith replied before she could stop herself. Then she began to look scared. "Look, I don't know what the fuck this is, but I don't like it. Let me go!"

"Do you know what the Game is?" Arachne asked. "Let me show you."

Her thin hand tightened around Faith's tatooed bicep and she pulled her through the club to the back room where the Game was played. There she shoved Faith towards a chair and then handed the shocked Slayer a piece of paper.

"You're going to play the Game, Faith," Arachne said, leaving no room for argument. "Willow is playing. So are Spike, Angel, Cordelia, and Tara. There is one other player that you don't know; perhaps you never will know him. But this Game is your salvation, Faith; I can feel it in the air. So fill out your form and give it back to me, and I'll set up your character. Then you can enter the Game and play."

Faith stared at her for a long moment. "What the hell do you mean, my salvation? No such thing. And I'm not going to play _anything_ with Willow and Tara, not after I fucked with their friendship like that. And I'm _not_ filling out anything! So let me _go_!" 

She stood and stalked to the door, as if she was expecting to be stopped at any moment. She kicked the door and it cooperatively opened. She looked back at Arachne, confused.

"You'll leave if you really want to, Faith," Arachne said. "But aren't you curious? Don't you want to know what the Game is?

"Don't you miss Willow? Don't you want to say sorry, even if it's not real? And what about Cordelia? Tara? Even Spike—you messed with his mind a little—he used to love Buffy, you know."

Faith stood in the doorway, half turned towards Arachne, pain written all over her face. "How the fuck do you know all this?"

Arachne smiled, and the tension in the room lessened a little. "Sit down, Faith. Fill out the form, and then you can play."


	3. Roleplaying Is Abso-Bloody-Lutely NOTHIN...

****

The Black Widow

FORM

YOU

name: Willow Sasha Rosenberg

age: 19

height: 5'8"

romantic attachments: none

YOUR CHARACTER

name: Lisha (it's Arabic for the darkness before midnight)

age: not younger than 15, but no older than 24

height: taller. Like Cordy is now.

preferred physical enhancements: I want to be strong like Buffy and glamorous like Cordy

romantic attachments: I would like to have someone to love

is there any role you would like to fill in the Game?: I want to be key to something. Not necessarily a big-I do-a-bunch-of-cool-stuff role, but I want people to _want me._

****

END FORM

-

Chapter Three:

__

"See previous answer. Whatever."

Willow, now clad in veil, circlet, various necklaces, rings on every finger and on both of her big toes, bracelets (fourteen thin silver bangles on her left hand, a thick silver band from wrist to elbow on her right) and a complicated, extremely thin belly chain looped around her waist, escaped from her manor and went for her walk.

Was all of this glamour really necessary? She felt like a dummy in a jewelry store. She also felt like pickings for any robber, thief rogue or highwayman—or woman—who would chance to come along. She'd felt exposed enough without the jewelry, but now... 

Maybe it had been stupid to refuse the escort Aira had suggested.

She left the paved road and took a path through the woods. It was quiet and sun filtered down between the leaves of the trees. Her headache was rapidly lessening in its stubborn extremity, and she was enveloped by a lovely feeling of tranquility.

This feeling, of course, was interrupted when the highwaypeople she'd been fearing swept down from behind the trees, knocked her unconscious, and dragged her off.

* * * 

The Krisha and Krish of Ayrkris entered their throne room together.

The audience, of course, applauded. They were both extremely beautiful—the King in his dark red ensembles, gold thread embroidering the hems, his handsome face content and strong arm around his wife's bare waist; the Queen beaming, flush against her husband's side, splendid in her gold pants and red shirt that matched her husband's tunic.

They sat and nodded to their devoted subjects, and then the King gestured for his Prime Minister to make the introductions.

Unseen by the adoring people, as their attention was now on the Prime Minister Gregor, King Jordan leaned over to Queen Brenna and said, "They love me!"

Also unseen by the people, the Queen responded, "They love me, too." They were nose-to-nose.

The King raised an eyebrow and smiled. "They love you because I love you." Then, of course, it was inevitable that they kiss.

But by then, the Prime Minister had finished with his highly boring speech, and the attention of the people were on their monarchs again.

There was a round of laughter and whistling as even the dark-skinned King blushed, and then the day began.

* * * 

Faith awoke in a tiny room. It was about five feet wide and eight feet long—long enough for a soft sleeping-mat, a trunk with all of her possessions, and a door to open and leave.

What had woken her was the persistent knocking on the aforementioned door. Faith got up and opened it, coming face-to-face with—Tara.

"Oh," Tara said. She shuffled her feet, and then nodded her head. "I'm Gili, Prince Karl's personal assistant. Karl and Aaron are breakfasting, and Aaron wanted me to call you."

"Aa-Aaron?" Faith asked, pulling at the sash of her short cotton robe.

"The Count," Tara explained. "Get dressed and then come out." Faith nodded mutely and then closed the door.

She'd agreed to this Game because it had seemed like a good idea, but now she had no clue what to do. 

She'd been shoved in the face with one of the people she'd hurt directly, and now she was going off to meet more people. She was scared and cold and lonely, and what was worse was that she was well aware of how well she deserved it.

Was this why she'd gotten out of jail early?

With a sigh, she untied her robe, letting it drop to the floor, and then opened her trunk. There were piles of leggings and long shirts, the kind of thing Tara had been wearing. They were all in different colors, and Faith finally settled on a dark blue, long-sleeved tunic and black leggings. She brushed her hair while looking in the tiny mirror on the wall above her sleeping-mat and slid her feet into the soft brown slippers by the door.

As a last thought, she folded her sleeping-robe and made her bed by folding the blanket at the foot, and then she gathered up all of her courage to leave her tiny haven.

Tara was still standing outside the door, but she was leaning against the wall of the corridor, staring up at the ceiling. She looked over when Faith opened the door and gave her a shaky half-smile. "So, Deirdre, shall we go meet their Graces?"

On their way down the corridor, Faith said, without looking up, "I'm sorry."

Tara nodded but didn't say anything.

The door to the Count's breakfast room was opened, and Faith was able to see inside from a while away. The comforting figure of Angel made the Game a lot less foreboding, and the abandoned look on her face melted away.

Tara entered first. "Majesty, your Grace?"

They turned and Angel's usually calm countenance held an expression of surprise for just a moment as he took in the sight of Faith, but he nodded and gestured for them to sit. "Choclatl?"

They each took the proffered cup and sat, Tara relaxed, Faith on the edge of her seat. 

Spike looked from Tara to Faith to Angel to Faith to Tara, and then decided the tension between the three of them wasn't worth worrying about. "Right," he said loudly, breaking the silence. "So, Aaron, you planning on visiting Ayrkris anytime soon?"

Angel looked into his cup of choclatl as if the answers would be found in the melted chocolate at the bottom. "Brenna wants me to. She keeps writing, saying while she has to see _you_ every month, she hasn't seen me in quite a while."

Spike looked amused. "She put it that way? While she _has_ to see me every month?"

"She says she likes Gili and she likes the reunions she, Gili and Lisha have, but you're a huge pain in the butt and barely worth the gossip."

Spike looked mildly irritated. "I think I'm _well_ worth her bloody gossip!" Then he grinned. "You like her, don't you?"

"What?" Angel asked, alarmed. Cordelia, as well as being married, was his half-sister. As many of the girls he knew would say, major yuck-factor.

"Not Brenna," Spike said, rolling his eyes. "The redhead. Lashay, or whatever her name is."

"Lisha," Tara, Angel and Faith all corrected him. "And no," Angel continued curtly, "I don't."

Spike looked surprised. "Why not? Don't everybody?" At the others' skeptical looks, he shrugged. "I mean, she's nice. And she's cute as all hell, not too short, and available, right?" Tara looked ready to punch him. "Calm down, Gili," he said. "I'm not lookin' at your lil' sister for anything."

Tara nodded but continued to glare at him.

Faith raised a timid hand. "What do I do?" The others all looked at her. "I mean, I know it's against the rules and stuff, but I have no clue who my character is or what she does."

Angel nodded. "Okay. You're my personal assistant, kind of like Tara—Gili—is to Spike, or Karl. You're quiet."

"You're my friend," Tara added. "I think I recommended you to Angel."

"There's really not much else," Spike said.

Faith smiled a little sadly. "Thanks." I guess I won't get my request after all.


	4. A Lesson In Legends

Title: The Black Widow

Author: Kendra A,

Notes: Sorry it took soooo long to update-- my mom took away my computer access because she kept catching me up at two o'clock in the morning writing fanfic J

****

The Black Widow

FORM

YOU

name: Cordelia Cleopatra Chase 

age: 19

height: 5'10 1/2"

romantic attachments: 

YOUR CHARACTER

name: Brenna

age: not younger than 16, but no older than 22

height: 5'10 1/2"

preferred physical enhancements: A little stronger--like, so I'd be able to make a difference in a fight

romantic attachments: let him be gorgeous?

is there any role you would like to fill in the Game?: If I have to go out, I want to go out with a big BANG_._

****

END FORM

-

Chapter Four:

__

"They love you because I love you."

Imani, as far as worlds generally went, was not very culturally integrated. That is to say, the folktales in one country stayed there, and the dress habits stayed there, and the songs and food and customs stayed there too. There wasn't much trade between separate continents, as extended travel by sea was considered only with trepidation and the two main land masses were far apart. The only countries that communicated regularly at all were Ayr- and Dorkris, and that was usually for more severe political liasons than trade--for instance, marriage.

Yet, all of the countries, even if they were, for the most part, unaware of it, were united by two things. The first force that united them was called the Web, and the people who inhabited the Web were rogues. 

Scoundrels, minstrels, vagabonds, burglars, robbers, pickpockets, assassins, thieves, prostitutes, drug dealers, serfs and the general peasantry were what made up the Web of Rogues, and there was a universal agreement among all of them. _They would never cheat each other_. Killing was allowed, if the fight was for a good reason; conspiracies were allowed, if against a common enemy; assassins paid prostitutes for a quick time in an alley, or an inn, or a recently vacated mansion, and drug dealers paid assassins to pick off customers who neglected to pay up.

There were ranks of rogues, just as in any hierarchy. There was a rogue for each street who reported to the rogue for their neighborhood; the rogue for the neighborhood reported to the rogue who ruled the city, and so on and so forth until the Master Rogues of each country paid their groveling respects to the Master of the World.

The Master Rogue of the World was not an easy title to come by or maintain. The one who currently asat upon his gold-encrusted throne was getting old--nearing thirty-five, in fact--and the only thing that had kept him alive this far was his relatively agile mind and the sword that hung at his waist. It was not his skill with the sword that was feared; it was the sword itself. Stolen from the king of a country on the other continent, it had been painstakingly smuggled back to him through the loyalty of sixteen choice rogues in his court. 

The sword was the other thing that united Imani. It was called the Darkness Before Midnight, the Unsheathable Sword, the Philosopher's Grail, Defender of Faith, Lisha. 

There was a long legend behind the sword that all of Imani knew in their own languages, and it follows as thus:

__

Once upon a time, before Imani was the Land of Faith and before the Web of Thieves had been spun, there was the first king, whose name was Oskyr. He had serving him a loyal mage by name of Hictyrr, and Hictyrr was so loyal to his king that he wanted him alone to rule the world. 

Therefore, Hictyrr had fashioned for his King a sword by the most skillful swordsmith he knew, and when it was made, the sword was beautiful. It was so thin it was almost transparent, and it was so sharp it could cleave the air in twain. The hilt was made of pearl, and in it was burned a pattern of silver-coated sea serpents with eyes of jade. Along the delicate blade ran a pattern so thin it could only be seen when held up to the light of the full Moon, and when Hictyrr did this, he found that it was a Maze. 

Alas, the sword was so whisper-thin it was in danger of breaking at the first strike of an opposing sword, so Hictyrr decided he must enchant it and bestow it with powers it had not previously possessed, so that it would lead his king always victorious in battle. He sent out messengers fast of foot and fleet of word to find the exotic ingredients that would make his spell possible, and in a year the last one had returned and lain the cedar box containing Dragon's heart at Hictyrr's feet.

Banishing his family to the other wings ofhis sumptuous dwelling, Hictyrr began the spell, meticulously reading the scripted words and following the instructions to the last sprinkling of lizard's bone; but alas, spells always go askew, and Hictyrr's, though valiant, was none different. His daughter's kitten had gotten loose, and crept into the room; and, being curious as all cats are reputed to be, decided to investigate. It knocked over thebeautiful cedar box containing the still warm and bleeding Dragon's heart, and the pumping life's blood, the last ingredient, spilled onto the floor and sank into the carpet.

Hictyrr turned and found the kitten licking at the last salvageable blood and went into a rage. The Dragon's heart, as everyone knows, is near impossible to obtain, and certainly not twice in any man's lifetime; therefore, Hictyrr flew at the poor kitten, intending to kill it and use its blood in the spell instead, as Dragon's blood is reputed to be so strong as to dilute the kittne's own.

The kitten, however, made stronger by the Dragon's blood, knew the malice in the man's movements and raised a razor-sharp claw to strike. The strength lent the kitten by the Dragon's blood directed its blow, and it killed Hictyrr just as Hictyrr's dagger slew it. Their combined blood flew through the air in the violence of which their wounds were inflicted, and fell onto the blade of the trembling sword as the last part to the nearly finished spell. Both Hictyrr and the kitten fell dead, but the sword was finished, although its spell was altered.

The sword is indeed a formidible weapon, though it does not guarantee the user invincible; and it now carries a clause, however inexplicable, of its own. The sword cannot be sheathed by any but those worthy of mind, heart, body and soul; and the sword has never yet been sheated.

The Master Rogue sat upon his gold-encrusted throne deep in the forests of Ayrkris and ran a tentative finger down the undetectable maze on the naked blade of his sword and went to see what his thieves had captured and brought home.


End file.
